Micah P. Hinson

With the hormonal cheek of an overripe pimple finally bursting, Micah Paul Hinson explodes into a set of indefinite and indefinable length in front of the crowd that turned out in force for the Rome date. Indefinite and indefinable because, after nearly two hours of a solo guitar-and-voice performance, I defy anyone not to lose, at least a little, that grip on the space-time coordinates that tie us to the World. The two girls sitting to my right and left certainly know something about that, each in their own opposite way. To my right, a girl barely into her twenties sings along to nearly every song from memory, her gaze lost somewhere above the stage; it's a joy to watch her smile whenever Micah makes small or substantial changes to lyrics she's clearly learned by heart. To my left, the kind of girl every music critic dreads running into at a show. An out-of-town university student, probably drawn in by the iconic photo of Micah plastered on the posters, who after just five songs starts muttering all sorts of nonsense about her day to the poor, brave guy she's dragged along with her. In both cases, it's as if Time had stopped. As if Time were being kept by Micah P. Hinson himself.

The venue, as mentioned, was packed, including plenty of American tourists proud of their compatriot's stoic recovery from the serious accident he was involved in a year or so ago in Barcelona, and there was brisk business at the merch table selling posters from the night. One euro a poster, an honest price. Shame only that the Circolo's sound system isn't exactly on par with Santa Cecilia, but they proudly make do with what they've got. The effect is every bit as overwhelming regardless.

The show kicks off and the feeling is of watching a new Johnny Cash gone hooligan. The best of transatlantic country-folk tradition tuned to a thoroughly contemporary register: unsurprisingly, then, the set is dotted with raw, near-screamo vocal outbursts. There's ovation and full engagement even for the lesser-known tracks, the ones that came off the EPs, like "The Beneath Rose" or "Presents The Surrending". Clear proof of a night driven more by good music than by any programmatic urge to promote an album. That said, an unreleased song does slip in every now and then, introduced by the Tennessee boy (untitled, as is customary in these cases, but with plenty of detail) as a welcome preview of the new record, due out next spring. And when my impudent neighbour occasionally blurts out an embarrassing "But he sounds just like my brother reciting poetry!", or someone at the back - worn out - starts whistling at minstrel Hinson's wordiness, he's quick to set the record straight with a suburban, laconic "If you don't like my song, get the fuck out!". Chapeau.

The seismometer measuring excitement levels down at the front of the stage naturally spikes when "The Micah P. Hinson And The Red Empire Orchestra" takes off. Even so, a certain fervour accompanies the performance of nearly every song, which, heard live, confirms his innate gift for songwriting and his complete ease with being an artist first and a thirty-one-year-old from Memphis second. All told, it's an hour and forty minutes of music, a bit of encore, and everyone heads home. Still dazed and satisfied, though. For opposite reasons, both the girl to my left and the one to my right are smiling. Not bad at all. Especially for such a slight figure who, seen from a distance, looks like the freak twin of Linkin Park's Chester Bennington.

Photo by Massimo Monacelli

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